Memorial Day Thoughts

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Yesterday was Memorial Day, and I was thrilled to see the local news spend a lot of time reminding people what Memorial Day is all about.  So many Americans have forgotten that it is not just a day off to barbecue, camp, and picnic.

Here in Seattle that forgetfullness is especially rampant. Which isn’t surprising, given that every other car in this town sports an anti-war bumper sticker and parents are told that military recruiters are predators just waiting to snatch their precious children away.

I have lived in Seattle for 20 years now, so I have had the opportunity to see firsthand the attitudes that abound here. The military is viewed with horror. Brainwashing of children begins at a very young age, and they are brought up to believe that the military is a haven for the crazy, the uneducated, and the want-to-be murderers.

Most children in this ultra liberal city are taught that service in the military is to be avoided at all costs. After all, why should they risk their precious skins needlessly? The military is an unnecessary expense. Those things that make us Americans, the freedoms and perks that we all enjoy, are birthrights. No one would ever be able to take them away.

I guess none of the brainwashers has ever had a reason read a history book.

So back to what I began with. The news media did a fantastic job reminding us all that Memorial Day was created to honor those in our military who have fallen.

Honor. The military.

I hope the message got through.

A mystery

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I have about 15 storylines just waiting to be written. Fifteen plot ideas, 12 are sitting in a file on my computer, 3 are in a notebook on my bookshelf, all are waiting until I have the time to write them into a full fledged story.
And since I just finished Gray Zone, it is almost time to choose the lucky winner. To pick out one of those plots and bring it to life.

Only, not one of them is the story I want to write next.

You see, I have this desire to write in several different genres. I have written a children’s fantasy trilogy, a science fiction, and a young adult contemporary fiction. What I want to write next, what I really, really want to try my hand at, is a mystery.

Only none of the plots I’ve worked out are mysteries. They are all either sci fi or fantasy.

Taking on the task of writing a mystery intimidates me somewhat. But then again, before I put aside my fears and did it, writing Braumaru scared me to death.

It will be a challenge, but I like challenges.

Which does not in the least solve my current problem.

The mystery of the mystery. What should it be, what should it be?

The backpack

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I’m one of those people who feel guilt about just about everything. If I have to kill a spider, I apologize to it first. When I worked at a place that had mass layoffs, I apologized to my boss because he had to tell me that I was among those being laid off.
So when I walked my dog the other day, I could not just walk past that backpack that was sitting by the side of the road.

Oh, I tried. I paused for just a minute, looked around for the owner of the backpack, and kept walking. “It’s not my business,” I told myself, “the owner of the backpack knows it is there.”

But as I walked, the image of the backpack was burned into my brain. I started thinking about the dirt covering it, more dirt than a student would ever have.

Then the scenarios began. Multiple reasons for the backpack’s presence at that particular location.

Finally, in my mind’s eye, I visualized the open zipper, and realized that there had been an adult male’s wallet in plain view. A full wallet. (Which brought forth a few rather sinister scenarios.)

I turned around and returned to the backpack, deciding that the least I could do was knock on a few doors to see if the anyone knew who the backpack belonged to.

A woman was working in her yard, and together we tried to figure out who the backpack belonged to. The wallet contained at least one credit card, a social security card, and a driver’s license with an address located on the other side of town. We also found a bottle of prescription medicine and a loaf of fresh baked bread among the items crammed into the backpack.

Not knowing what else to do I turned the backpack over to the woman, and she promised to ask all of her neighbors about it, and eventually turn it over to the police if the owner was not found.

I’m still not satisfied, not guilt free. Did I do all I could? Should I have done more?

Even though, I have no clue what that more could be!

Letters of Thanks

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I just got thank you letters from the two fifth grade classes I spoke to for Young Author’s Week.

Wow, they certainly did make me smile! Fifth graders can be so sweet and so cute. Sure, there were a few letters that I could tell were being written because the kids were told to write a letter. But quite a few of the letters really seemed sincere, as if the kids truly enjoyed our time together.

Perhaps the most surprising thing is that based on the comments, the students liked the writing exercise I had them do–which had been my husband’s idea.

Yeah husband!

P.S. Okay, I’ll admit it. I also love when the kids say they enjoyed reading my books, or that they can’t wait to read them. But honestly, is that surprising?

Someone commented on your photo.

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I check my email multiple times a day. Often enough that rarely, and I do mean rarely, do I have more than 5 or so unread emails sitting in my Inbox waiting for my attention. (Except for mornings, of course, when I might have 30 or more that have congregated overnight, waiting to ambush me.)
So imagine my surprise a few minutes ago when I opened my email to find 17 new emails. I had just finished reading everything a mere 10 minutes earlier.

The mystery was solved as soon as I noticed that the majority were notifications from Facebook. Somebody has been very busy posting, tagging, and commenting!

DTA reborn!

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Now, there wasn’t really anything wrong with Department of Temporal Adjustment’s old cover. Not really. It just fell a little short.     

So T (yes, the same T of the phone fiasco) wanted to create a totally unique cover for DTA. A cover that better represented the nuances of the book. A cover that would draw the reader’s eye and spark interest.

I think she succeeded. I love it, and it is now available almost everywhere! (Although, if you really, really, really want an old cover, I am sure there are a few of them still out there floating around.)

I am very happy and pleased with this new cover. It is quirky and unique (which is what some people have said about the book). I adore the way the profile serves as hands of the clock. And the way she left numbers off the face of the clock to show that time was being worked on…well, it’s brilliant! T certainly shows a lot of talent, and all I can really say is that she did a fantastic job!

Conversing with fifth graders

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They are not all like this, but here are a few of the conversations I’ve had during various question and answer periods at elementary school author visits. These all occurred with fifth graders:

Student: “Have your books made a million dollars yet?”
Me: “No.”
Student: “How much have you made?”
Me: “I think I’ll keep that to myself.”
Student: “Why?”
Me: “It’s private.”
Student: “No it’s not. You’re an author, you have to tell.”
*****
Student: “Can I have a free book?”
Me: “No.”
Student: “Why not?”
Me: “Because there are no free books.”
Student: “Don’t you get free books?”
Me: “No. I have to pay for them too.”
Student: “That’s stupid! You should get them free!”
*****
Student: “Can I be an author?”
Me: “Do you like to read?”
Student: “No, I hate reading?”
Me: “If you hate reading, why do you want to write?”
Student: “I don’t want to write, I want to be famous and make lots of money the easy way!”

Most of the time fifth graders are great, but sometimes they make me sigh.

A knock on the door

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Friday I was working upstairs in the office, when I heard a knock on the door. I rushed down the stairs and threw open the door, sure that the person at the door was one of my daughters dropping by for a visit.

Imagine my surprise when I can face to face with a medium height, medium build, clean-cut blonde man standing on my doorstep.

“Oh,” he said with a smile on his face. “I was looking for Allison.”
“Allison?” I asked, still confused by finding the wrong person standing at my door.
“Yes, I guess I have the wrong house.”
“Allison? I’m afraid I don’t know any Allisons around here.”
“Well, sorry to bother you.”

And he left. The funny thing was, he didn’t go knock on any of my neighbors’ houses, like I expected. Instead he hurried to his car and drove off.

Fast forward to last night, Monday night, when my husband and I were sitting in the living room.
“You know,” my husband began, “I read on our community blog that there are guys going around the neighborhood knocking on doors.”
“Knocking on doors?” I asked, still only half listening.
“Yeah. And if no one answers they break in and rob the house.”
“Knocking on doors?” I repeat again, but this time with a gulp. My husband’s words have now caught my full attention.
“Yes. So be careful. It is happening a lot in our neighborhood right now.”
“Knocking on doors?” I ask for a third time, probably because my shocked brain was no longer working correctly.
“Right, knocking on doors. So be sure to answer the door if you are home, so they won’t break in while you are there. But maybe you should not open the door until you know who it is, just in case.”

Okay, I’ll admit to being thoroughly freaked out. My one consolation is that my dog, Pepper, barked at the man the entire time he stood at my door. Hopefully her 20 pounds of bouncing fur coupled with those ferocious high pitched yelps will be enough to keep him from coming back.

To spell, or not to spell

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I interviewed with a woman a few months ago, and was thoroughly amazed by what I learned.

It seems that this particular woman, a well educated employee of UW, has a little trouble with her spelling.

So what does she do to check the correct spelling of the word? Does she look it up in the dictionary or possibly ask a friend?

No. She opens a browser and types the word into Google as she thinks it should be spelled. If she gets a hit, she knows she has spelled it correctly.

Does anyone else see a problem with this?

The Smell of Bureaucracy

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It all started with a phone call, or to be more exact, 4 phone calls.

My daughter had lost her phone on the Metro bus, but had been assured by the finder that it had been turned in to Metro’s Lost & Found. Yet each call to the L&F resulted in the same line, “We don’t have a phone like that.” Finally, in desperation, I asked if we visit the L&F and look through the found phones ourselves. “No problem,” was the reply, “we’ll let you dig away to your hearts content.”

My daughter (I’ll call her T) and I walked into the Lost & Found and were instantly greeted by the smell of stale smoke and a very solid glass window open 6 inches at about waist level. Through the window we could see a man sitting across the room at a desk that was so covered in papers that I knew an avalanche must be imminent.

“May I help you?” the man asked, not even looking up from his computer.
“We are looking for a phone my daughter lost on the bus. The person who found the phone texted that they left it here, at the Lost & Found, with a note. She came by while your office was closed for lunch.”
“Type of phone?”
“Samsung.”
“Carrier.”
“Verizon.”
“What bus was it lost on?”
“Well, I doubt the girl wrote that on the note she left with the phone. She probably…”
“What bus was it lost on?”
“71”
“Color?”
“Dark blue.”
“We don’t have it,” came the gruff response after a few more strokes to the keyboard.
“Could you look again. The girl specifically said she brought it by herself.”
“When was it lost?”
“It was lost this weekend, but I think the girl only brought it by Tuesday or Wednesday.”
“Hmmm, we do have a blue phone that was left here over a week ago,” the man stated as he got up from his desk, walked out of sight for a moment, and then reappeared with a phone that looked like it had been run over by a bus. For the first time he looked in our direction as he placed the wrecked phone in my daughter’s outstretched hand.
“That’s not my phone,” T stated firmly, and she handed the phone back to the man.
“Well, we don’t have any other phones. I’ve looked through them all.”
“But,” my daughter said anxiously, “the girl said that she left the phone here with a note on it…”
“Why didn’t you say so,” the man interrupted as he dug his hand deep into the pile of papers on his desk. “That was the information you needed to give me, your phone is right here. I didn’t put it into the system since the note said someone would be coming by to pick it up.”
And with that, T was handed her phone.
We thanked the man and left, happy the whole frustrating ordeal was over so we could leave the stuffy little room and get a breath of fresh air.
Funny that even in these days of non-smoking buildings, bureaucracy still smells like stale smoke.